Remembering Mr. Bjerke

 

That machine was just my type

                                The type writing machine, patented September 26, 1899, No. 633,672.

I’ve had a fascination with typewriters ever since I took Mr. Bjerke’s typewriting class as a sophomore at Hanson High School. Little did I know that learning to use a typewriter would become the most valuable skill I would ever acquire. No offense to Mr. Genandt or Mr. Sayles -- my math and physics teachers, respectively, but I just haven't gotten the mileage from algebra or physics that I have from learning to type. I’ve used my keyboarding skills every day of my life — as a journalist, an administrator, and as a public affairs specialist. Not many high‑school classes can claim that kind of longevity.

My introduction to the typewriter, however, was anything but confident. Those massive, metal Royal typewriters -- grey with green keys -- sat on each desk under Mr. Bjerke's watchful eye like iron beasts. Imposing. Impressive. Intimidating. And to make matters worse, the keys had no letters on them. That’s right — blank keys. You had to know what lived under each fingertip. Put your hands on the wrong home row and you produced instant gobbledegook, the kind that earned you a slow head shake and a “tsk, tsk, tsk” from Mr. Bjerke as he hovered over your shoulder.

But what an accomplishment it was to complete the 60‑second time trial with no (or very few) errors. And here was the tradeoff: go fast and you risked carelessness — an extra letter here, a stray keystroke there — or slow down and produce neat, error‑free lines at the expense of that blessed speed. It was a daily gamble. Still, the thrill of not depending on “hunt and peck” to compose my thoughts was worth every risk. And nothing beat that satisfying ding as my classmates and I reached the end of another line — sometimes inspired prose, sometimes incomprehensible gibberish. Yikes.

My fascination didn’t start in that classroom, though. It began earlier, when my dad — Alexandria’s city auditor — inherited a huge work desk and an ancient Underwood typewriter. That machine looked like it had survived two world wars and a tornado, but to me it was magnificent. Heavy. Mechanical. Important. My fixation only grew from there.

By the time I reached South Dakota State, we budding journalists had graduated to the IBM Selectric. What an improvement. A lighter touch, faster typing, and that magical little typeball that made us feel like we were living in the future. And then, before I graduated, the computer arrived. Typewriting met keyboarding. Goodbye white‑out, eraser shields, and carbon copies. No crumpled up balls for the wastebasket. Hello editing, saving, and printing without smudges.

To this day, I compose my thoughts on a keyboard, and I silently thank the inventor of the typewriter. That clunky Royal in Mr. Bjerke’s classroom set the course for my entire professional life. Not bad for a nervous sophomore staring down a machine with blank keys and a teacher who could spot a misplaced finger from across the room